


Intruder Alert

by Batshit_Bogs



Series: Through the Mirror [5]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27667145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batshit_Bogs/pseuds/Batshit_Bogs
Summary: Tim cuts himself off and freezes, something like dread creeping into his veins.There are voices coming from his dad’s study.Jack and Janet are still in Brazil. Ms. Mac won’t visit until sunday, and she never comes early. There’s literally no one that should be in the manor besides Tim.-Just once, Tim would like things to go his way. Unfortunately, he has terrible luck, and it only gets worse
Relationships: Bart Allen & Tim Drake & Kon-El | Conner Kent & Cassie Sandsmark, Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Cassandra Cain & Tim Drake, Stephanie Brown & Tim Drake, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Duke Thomas
Series: Through the Mirror [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1937332
Comments: 16
Kudos: 260





	Intruder Alert

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck this 35 paged, 13154 word fic. Fuck it. I struggled with this thing for over a week - it did _not_ want to cooperate. At least now I can remove a tab from the five docs open on my laptop. Ugh. You can probably tell when I said 'screw this I just want it done' and rushed it. Sorry lol 
> 
> Tim is 14, Duke is 18, Damian is 20, Steph is 15, Cass is 16, Bruce is 37
> 
> **CWs**  
>  _\- torture  
>  \- choking (not the fun kind)  
> \- implied child abuse  
> \- drowning  
> \- CPR_
> 
> lemme know if I missed something

“I literally couldn’t care less about the theme of Hamlet,” Tim says as he absentmindedly spins in his desk chair and twirls one of his hoodie’s strings around a finger. 

Duke scoffs over the phone. “ _You literally just agreed to let me rant about this. Dude, I get that you won’t have to deal with it for another couple of years, but still. I need to vent.”_

“Okay, fine.” Tim heaves an overly dramatic sigh. “Go on.”

“ _Thank you. So, as I was saying, Ms. Odwell thinks -”_

Tim only half listens as Duke rants about how his class is being taught Hamlet. Like he said, Tim won’t have to deal with it for some time, which he’s eternally thankful for. Senior year feels like it’s lifetimes away, and he’s never been so glad to be a sophomore. 

That doesn’t stop Duke from calling him (he should just _come over,_ the walk from the Waynes’ to Drake manor isn’t all that long) whenever he’s annoyed with his teachers. Tim doesn’t mind, in all honesty. It’s nice to be thought of, and he values his relationship with Duke. He’s like Tim’s older brother. 

Still, Shakespeare isn’t Tim’s forte. At least Duke never talks about math - Tim _hates_ math. Sure, he’s good at it, but it _sucks._ History is okay sometimes. Now science, _that's_ his jam. Tim could spend all day in that class and never gets bored, and it helps that Dr. Cromwell is a fantastic teacher. 

Tim closes his laptop, stands, and stretches as he hums in response to what Duke is currently complaining about. Something about the teacher romanticizing Ophelia. 

It’s a little past five...Tim should eat. Due to a concussion he got last night he’s currently benched, at least until they’re sure it’s safe for him to go out on patrol. Bruce tried to get him to stay at the manor, and usually he’d be happy to, but Damian is visiting. Tim really doesn’t want to deal with that mess of awkwardness. So, he politely declined with the excuse that he wanted some ‘me time’. 

The avoidance doesn’t mean he’s happy to be in Drake manor. Alone. 

“ _And when I called her out, she had the audacity to - Tim?”_

“Uh-huh - wait, what? The audacity to what?” Tim closes his door behind him and slides down the hall to the staircase. Maybe he’ll heat up some spaghettios - no, that’s a depression meal, and he’s been feeling pretty great. He doesn’t want to accidentally trigger a pavlovian response and ruin his mood. There’s some stew Ms. Mac left last time she was here that he can reheat.

“ _Bro, are you okay?”_

“What? Yeah, I’m good,” Tim says as he starts the perilous descent down the manor stairs. He always forgets that socks plus polished stone plus stairs equals disaster. 

“ _You sure? ‘Cause I said your name four times.”_

“Oh.” Tim winces. “Sorry, I guess I zoned.”

Duke makes a soft, concerned noise. “ _You should come back to the manor if your concussion is still bothering you.”_

“I’m fine, I’m just tired.”

“ _Tired tired or like...tired.”_

Tim chuckles, stepping onto the ground floor. “Tired as in ‘it’s been a long day and my brain wants sleep’.”

“ _Oooh, okay, good. Just making sure.”_

“Thanks for che -” Tim cuts himself off and freezes, something like dread creeping into his veins.

There are voices coming from his dad’s study. 

Jack and Janet are still in Brazil. Ms. Mac won’t visit until sunday, and she never comes early. There’s literally no one that should be in the manor besides Tim.

“ _Thanks for…?”_ Duke prompts. “ _You kinda trailed off there.”_

“Stop talking,” Tim whispers, letting urgency bleed into his voice. He darts to the wall and slowly inches towards the study door. It’s open. It’s _never_ open. Tim wishes he brought his bo-staff with him. 

“ _What is it?”_ Duke says, his voice barely audible. He’s switched to his Signal voice. 

“There are people in the manor, don’t know how many. Probably robbers.” Tim reaches the doorjamb and takes a deep breath.

“ _Shit - I’m going to go check who’s closest to you, hold on.”_

Tim peeks around the corner and almost yelps. 

There are four people in the study, all dressed in professional looking black clothing. They’re definitely robbers, and if the ski masks didn’t tip him off, it’s how they’re plucking the priceless artifacts off of the many shelves and packing them into cases.

Tim isn’t one to swear lightly, but fuck. _Fuck._

If Jack and Janet come home to find some of their prized artifacts missing...Tim’s heart races at the mere prospect. It would _not_ be good - that’s an understatement. Tim would rather take on Joker, Scarecrow, and Ivy all at once. 

Tim can’t let them take anything. He has to do something.

He pockets his phone, leaving it on just in case. Duke says something as he does, but it’s too quiet to understand. It was something about Spoiler. Tim steps into the doorway with his best bat-glare plastered on his face, attempting to look threatening in all of his 5’5 glory.

One of the robbers catches sight of him, and says in a nasally voice, “Who the fuck is that?”

The other robbers whip around.

The shortest one hits the second-tallest’s arm. “I thought you said the place was empty!”

“It is! Was, whatever,” she says in a heavy crime-alley accent. “How was I supposed to know the Drakes didn’t take their brat with ‘em?”

They cased the manor before attempting to rob it. They _knew_ Jack and Janet are gone. That doesn’t bode well.

Tim could run, but if he runs, he leaves the artifacts to be stolen. He could simply wait for backup, but that could take too long. Third option, he fights - right now, that option is looking great. He’ll have to play it off as a rich kid that’s taken self-defense classes. The risk of being recognized as Wren is too great if he fights full out. 

Duke yells something loud enough for it to reach Tim’s ears, but he doesn’t dare reply.

The tallest robber creeps forward, his head tilting. “Who’s that you’ve got on the phone, kid?”

Tim slides into a fighting stance and snarks, “Wouldn’t _you_ like to know?”

“Oooo,” the nasal-voiced robber crows, “the kid’s got a pair!”

The shortest one snorts. “Look at him, gearing up to fight like he’s hot stuff. Little bird wants to play, is that it?”

Tim bristles. “Come a little closer and I can show you what this little bird can do.”

The robbers nudge each other, scoffing, and now all four of them are slowly approaching. Tim isn’t sure he can win this. The shortest one is taller than him, and using what little technique he can might not get him out of this. His two years of Bruce’s training might not be able to save him either. 

But he has to try. 

Tim makes the first move. In a flash, he sweeps the tallest guy’s legs out from under him, then punches the nasal-voiced robber in the chest. He stumbles, wheezing, and the shortest takes his place. Tim roundhouse kicks her in the jaw, sending her sprawling, then backs up. 

“Alright, so the kid’s got some spunk,” the second-tallest says as her comrades pick themselves up.

“There’s more than where that came from,” Tim says, then winces internally. His quips are still a work in progress. “Leave the stuff here, and I won’t even call the GCPD.”

“Don’t get cocky. You got some lucky hits in is all,” the shortest robber says, rubbing her jaw. “We’ll stop underestimating you, then.”

They move in together, and Tim leaps into the fray, using as much skill as he dares. 

The fight goes great, until it doesn’t.

One minute he’s judo flipping a robber, and the next his side erupts with blinding pain. Tim cries out as every muscle in his body cramps, and he drops like a stone. He groans, his vision fuzzing at the edges. He just got _tased,_ didn’t he? Getting tased is the worst. 

“Is he out?”

Someone tuts. The voltage must have been dangerously high - Tim can’t focus.

“Not yet. Oh, fuck, his phone -”

“It’s still on? Shit, who was listening?”

There’s a stomp, then a crunch. “No one who matters. C’mon, let's ditch. Got the stuff?”

“Yeah, but...what’s a few trinkets to a rich kid’s ransom, if you catch my drift.”

Someone chuckles. “Oh, I catch it. Knock ‘em out, we’ll take him with.”

Tim blinks as a robber stands over him. They raise what looks like a vase, and he has just enough to think ‘ _that looks expensive’_ before it’s brought down on his head.

  * **⤘⤘⤘ -**



When Tim comes to, the first thing he registers is pain. His entire body is sore, like he parkoured across Gotham and then was used as Croc’s personal chew toy. That, and his head feels like it’s turning inside out. 

He groans and shifts, his face scraping against rough carpet. Something digs into his wrists, which are...tied behind his back?

Oh, right.

There were robbers, and Tim fought them, then he got...tased...and knocked out...they kidnapped him, didn’t they? 

He groans again as he cracks an eye open. A wall of black meets him, and he has a feeling that it’s an actual wall. The fact that it’s dark is a small mercy on his throbbing headache. He was _just_ healing from a concussion. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t have brain damage after this.

Trying to roll onto his back doesn’t work. The awkward placement of his arms keeps him from moving all that much without pain, and he’s not ready to try sitting up yet. He stretches out, biting his lip to keep from whimpering - Wren doesn’t make pathetic noises. His legs almost unfold all the way before they hit a wall.

Tim pauses for a moment, frowning. He drags his legs back and forth (glad that his ankles aren’t tied), gauging the dimensions of the space he’s trapped in. He has about three feet of leg room in any direction, and that’s being generous. Whoever kidnapped him shoved him in a closet, and not a nice one. 

An indeterminable amount of time drags by as Tim rests. There aren’t any noises from outside. There aren’t any markers for time, or if he’s alone, wherever he is. 

He hopes they left the artifacts. Jack and Janet are going to be furious with him for getting himself kidnapped, he doesn’t want to even _think_ about how much worse it’ll be if their stuff got stolen, too. 

Why is he such a _failure?_ There were only four robbers, and he’s _Wren,_ for heaven’s sake. It should have been easy to take them out, play it off as luck, and remove any trace of there having been a break in. 

Or, if he had snuck away instead of taking them on, Tim wouldn’t be in this mess at all. He could’ve tracked them down with the bats after the fact, _then_ gotten the artifacts back. It would’ve been easy to set everything up exactly as it had been. 

A true Drake wouldn’t have gotten into a situation like this.

A _bat_ wouldn’t have either, but then again he isn’t a true bat.

Tim sighs and attempts sitting up now that his head feels less like imploding. He moves in small increments, his body protesting at every movement, but eventually he manages to wriggle into a sitting position. The wall is smooth against his back. It’s a much more comfortable position than awkwardly laying on his side.

The closet door - if there is one, and if he isn’t in a _pit_ or something - is sealed tightly enough to prevent any light from getting in. Then again, there might not be any light outside in the first place. Either way, the interior of the closet is pitch black. The air is disgustingly stale, too.

It only takes a couple of attempts for Tim to realize that he can’t untie the ropes binding his wrists. The rough cords dig into his skin, uncomfortably tight, and he can’t curl his fingers all the way to get a proper grip on the fibers. Whoever kidnapped him, they either know what they’re doing or are just freakishly good at tying people up. 

Tim isn’t sure which is worse.

Eventually, after trying to kick the door open (it took several tries to find it), Tim gets bored enough to start counting the seconds to pass the time. One minute turns into eight, eight into fifteen, fifteen into sixty. He loses track once or twice and has to start over, but he’s pretty sure he’s been conscious in the closet for three hours. 

It’d be nice to know if it’s still night or not. If it’s night, then Bruce and the others are looking for him, right? He’s pretty sure they’d look for him - Duke was on call when the kidnapping happened. They wouldn’t just stand by and wait for a ransom or a body. 

At the four hour mark, the door is flung open in a flash of blinding light. 

Tim inhales sharply through his teeth and jerks away from it, squeezing his eyes shut. The back of his eyelids are lit up red, and oh, fantastic, his headache is back. 

Someone grabs him by the collar of his shirt and wrenches him from the closet to dump him unceremoniously on a cold, hard floor. There are voices around him, their words stabbing through his skull to pour right out the other ear. He tries to open his eyes to regain some semblance of awareness, but it’s just too bright to handle. A few blurry shapes move across his vision before he closes his eyes again.

They wrestle Tim upright, and it’s two years of ingrained instinct that makes him lash out. He kicks blindly and feels his heel connect with something sturdy. Whoever he hit yelps and swears, and a second later something hard strikes the back of his head. Stars explode behind his eyelids, and he bites his tongue so hard that he tastes copper. 

There’s more talking and yelling as he’s shoved into what feels like a chair. His hands are untied, but Tim is too disoriented to use that to his advantage before they’re re-tied to the chair arms. At least it brings some relief to his aching shoulders. Still, the back of the chair digs into his spine, and Tim leans forward to relieve the discomfort. Someone yells and slaps him, and he immediately stops, his cheek stinging.

Was that Janet? No, she’s in Brazil, and the hand didn’t have acrylic nails - it couldn’t have been her. Getting hit in the head twice during a concussion is not helping his memory.

Tim peels his eyes open, blinking rapidly against the glare. It’s receded enough for him to see properly, and he’s left staring at a camera, which...oh. That’s not good.

Camera plus kidnapping means the kidnappers are comfortable with filming themselves and their immediate surroundings. They mean business, and likely have done this before.

None of this is boding well for Tim.

Tim takes a deep breath through his nose and rakes his eyes over what he can see without making it obvious that he’s scanning the room. He’s never been kidnapped before, but Bruce has gone over what to do just in case. Step one is checking where he is, and what he can use to help himself escape if possible.

The four robbers (kidnappers, now) have replaced their ski masks with animal masks, which ups their creep factor by a million. They consist of a horse, a zebra, a cow, and a deer - all ungulates. At least they have a theme going. The second-tallest guy, wearing the horse, is standing behind the camera. There’s a ring studio light set up next to him, and two more on either side of the little ‘stage’. They’re the only lights in the room.

There aren’t any windows, and the shadows blanketing the corners of the room hide any possible escape routes. The floor is stone. It’s a basement, it has to be. The thought makes Tim nauseous - it’s way more difficult to escape a basement than any other kind of room.

In the corners of his vision he can see the shortest (zebra) and second-shortest (cow) standing on either side of the chair and a step behind. They’re holding assault rifles, and it’s all Tim can do not to panic.at the sight of them. 

Off to the side, standing in front of a table, is the tallest kidnapper, who’s wearing the deer mask. He turns around and something glints on his left hand - Tim’s stomach turns. Brass knuckles. The guy is wearing brass knuckles.

The table behind him is laden with rope, knives, guns, a small towel, and a bucket.

Kidnappers don’t usually torture their victims, but when they do, it’s a bad sign. Really bad. They do it to prompt the ransom to come faster, and their methods tend to get more and more severe until they get what they want. Usually the victim ends up dying before the money even comes, and sometimes they get killed afterwards anyway.

Tim doesn’t want to die.

The red light on the camera blinks on, and the guns the kidnappers are holding clack as they straighten their postures. Tim just hopes he doesn’t look too pathetic, especially if this is being sent to his parents. 

Deer-mask saunters into the camera’s view, absentmindedly cleaning the brass knuckles with a microfiber cloth. He spends a solid minute simply walking around the chair the long way. The hairs on the back of Tim’s neck stand up, and he resists the urge to lean away. He keeps as still as he can - if he makes himself less of a target, maybe the chance of him getting hurt will lessen. He’s not in a position to cause trouble, not yet anyway. Not until he has an escape plan.

“Good evening, commissioner,” Deer-mask says, stopping next to Tim. He rests his brass knuckled hand on the back of the chair. “I trust you’re having a lovely night.”

Oh, fantastic, this video is going to Gordon, and by extent, Batman. That’s _totally_ not a bad sign. Tim lets an annoyed and bored expression flicker across his face, just long enough for Bruce to catch if he’s watching. In batspeak, he’s pretty sure it means he’s okay, but done with the situation.

“You should know, this is the second note we’ve had to send. The first went to little Timmy’s parents, but as you can guess, they haven’t replied.”

Tim briefly closes his eyes and sighs quietly. It’s fine, his parents are just busy, that’s all. They’re somewhere without internet connection. They haven’t seen the video yet. There’s an explanation as to why they didn’t reply, there _has_ to be.

Deer-mask tuts. His hand gently - almost lovingly - brushes through Tim’s hair, and it’s all Tim can do not to flinch as his gut tightens. The hand in his hair grips it in a fist, and Deer-mask forcefully lifts his chin. 

Tim inhales sharply through his nose, but he does. Not. Flinch. Flinching is a weakness. It invites challenge. 

“Poor Tim here is getting homesick, aren’t you, kid?” Deer-mask shakes him a little, and Tim feels a couple strands of hair separate from his scalp. “We all want him to get back to bed, safe and sound.”

_Don’t spit in his face. Don’t spit in his face._

Finally, Deer-mask lets go, and Tim lightly shakes his head to try and rid the burn on his scalp, though all he succeeds in is making his headache worsen. Maybe he’ll get a haircut after this, once his parents pay the ransom and he gets to go home. He hopes he gets to go home. 

“So, since they’re not replying,” Deer-mask points at the camera, “I figure you’ll be able to pass along the message. If not, and instead you try to find us, we’ll know. Try to send the Bat, we’ll know. If we catch wind of any of that, well…”

Tim has no warning before the brass knuckles slam into his jaw. He grunts as his head snaps to the side, and something comes loose in his mouth. He spits a bloody tooth onto the floor, but doesn’t dare lift his jaw. He’s lucky that punch didn’t break anything.

Deer-mask chuckles darkly. “That’ll happen. For every three hours that go by, we’ll send another video of...ah... _incentive._ Consider this a sample of what’s to come.”

Punches are something Tim has gotten used to, the ache on the right side of his face is even familiar by now. The table is what worries him. If the punch is a sample, he really doesn’t want to find out what the knives and bucket are for. 

“Until then, Commissioner.” Deer-mask taps his wrist. “Time’s a-ticking.”

Horse-mask presses a button on the camera, and the red light turns off.

“You hit him _hard,_ man,” Cow-mask says in that nasally voice of his. “He spit out a tooth!”

Zebra-mask crouches and picks up the tooth. She turns it over in her fingers and muses, “It’s a nice one.”

“Gonna add that to your collection?”

“Yep.”

A shudder runs up Tim's spine. His kidnappers are crazy, and isn’t that just the icing on the cake? This is just his luck, really.

Deer-mask rolls his shoulders and walks over to the table. He tosses the brass knuckles onto it with a clank and sighs. “Gordon better answer quick.”

Tim blinks at the sudden change in his voice. When talking to the camera, his voice was light with a slight Narrows accent, and now it’s deep with a hint of a southern drawl. If he can change his voice with practiced ease when doing ransom videos, Tim is in deeper shit than he thought. 

Now he knows for certain these people are professionals. They’ve definitely kidnapped before, which means they’ve gone a long time without getting caught. Whether or not they got the money or let their victims live is beyond Tim’s knowledge. Hopefully they did. 

Horse-mask unties Tim as the others talk about getting dinner, then hefts him out of the chair and half drags him back to the closet. Just because Tim is complying doesn’t mean he’s gonna make things easy for them. On the way across the room, he thinks he catches a glimpse of stairs, but he isn’t sure. He doesn’t get a decent look before he’s dumped back in the tiny closet. 

The door slams, leaving him in darkness. 

Tim shifts into a better position and rubs his rope-less wrists. Either Horse-mask is sloppy, or she’s confident that he won’t escape. Either way, he’s grateful for the chance to stretch. He stands up and goes through what exercises he can to get the blood flowing in his arms, waiting for the noise outside the closet to stop.

Eventually the voices get quieter, and what must be the stairs creak. A second later a door slams. The tension bleeds from Tim’s shoulders, and he lets out an audible breath. Now, he can work on a plan. He counts a full twenty minutes until he tries the door handle, fully expecting it to be locke-

It opens. 

A somewhat hysterical giggle leaves Tim’s lips as he opens the closet door. This is _insane,_ there’s no way they left it unlocked on accident.

Unless...unless it’s a test. They could be waiting upstairs for him to come bursting through the basement door, giving them an excuse to beat him to a bloody pulp. Tim grimaces and pauses in the doorway.

It’s not like he can see anything, anyway - the basement is just as dark as the closet. If he knocks into something and breaks it, like the _camera,_ that could be bad. Really bad. Tim knows from firsthand experience that breaking someone else’s things ends with pain, and he doesn’t want to find out how bad the beating would be from kidnappers.

He steps back into the closet and closes the door.

  * **⤘⤘⤘ -**



Sometimes Jim wishes he left Gotham years ago. He should’ve seen a guy dressed as a bat jumping off of building, said ‘fuck that’, and booked it like a sane person. It would have saved him a lot of grief.

Yet here he is, watching a ransom video of a kid getting tortured in his office at the GCPD headquarters. Even worse, it’s a _livestream._ Each blow the Drake’s son, Tim, receives is in real time. He’s getting beat up _right now,_ and Jim is helpless to stop it. At least the kid’s doing great, keeping it together - Jim hates that the thought crosses his mind. 

Then again, Tim isn’t your average kid. 

The detectives clustered around him are trying to piece together what little evidence they can glean from the video - the stream is encrypted against download, so this is their only chance to study it. None of them dare to try and trace it, not after what they threatened. They’re stuck analyzing the voices, masked kidnappers, and the shadowed surroundings.

So far, all they have is that Tim is in a basement. That only narrows it down to the entire goddamn city. 

On the screen, in perfect quality, the deer-masked criminal is punching Tim at a languid speed. He hums along to the muted grunts of pain. A particularly hard hit to the gut has Tim make an awful wheeze, even through the tape over his mouth, and the tension in the air becomes palpable. A couple of detectives nervously glance over their shoulders.

Right, Jim forgot that there’s a detective he has no jurisdiction over perched on the windowsill. He can almost hear Batman gritting his teeth.

“ _I think that’s all for now. See you in three hours,”_ the bastard kidnapper drawls. He pats Tim’s cheek, the video cuts off, and Batman _growls._ Half of the detectives startle and move away from the window.

Jim leans back in his chair and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He tells his detectives, “Go work with what you got, and bring me results this time,” and they scramble from the room.

As soon as the door closes Batman drops into the room with a barely audible swish of his cape. 

“Tell me you have something.”

Batman growls again, softer this time.

“Five vigilantes combing the city,” Jim says, fighting to keep his tone even, “and you have nothing.”

“We’re doing everything we can,” Batman snaps. Jim is almost surprised by the blatant worry in his voice. _Almost._ Everyone else thinks Batman is involved because it’s a rich kid that’s been kidnapped, but Jim knows better. For all intensive purposes, Tim is one of Batman’s own.

Not that Jim knows anything about it - plausible deniability and all that. 

He shakes his head, sighs again, and opens up his email. Still nothing from Jack and Janet Drake. They won’t answer their phones or messages, which is worrying. They should be in Brazil - Jim hopes nothing happened to them. Surely they’d have replied by now if they could. 

It’s been roughly seven hours since Tim was kidnapped, and both the GCPD and the bats are no closer to finding him. If this drags on for much longer...the videos are going to get worse. Eventually they might not come at all, and it’d be a miracle just to find a body to bury.

“No replies from the Drakes,” Jim says, and Batman balls his fists so tightly that his gloves creak. There’s something in his posture that says he’s not surprised, and Jim wishes he could ask why. There’s something he doesn’t know. Something about the Drakes and Tim that Batman is fully aware of. 

Batman lifts a hand to the side of his head and barks, “Update.”

Jim waits patiently as whichever vigilante he’s talking to (hopefully) relays information. A minute later Batman grunts before lowering his hand.

“The basement is somewhere in the East End, not including the Narrows.”

“Yeah?” Jim raises an eyebrow. “How do you figure?”

“We have our ways,” is all Batman says.

Jim scowls. “You do know that if they find out you’re looking for Tim, they’ll kill him.”

“They won’t find out.”

Without another word, Batman sweeps out of the room through the window. Jim doesn’t turn around when he hears the familiar hiss of a grapple firing, nor when there’s sharp words from the rooftop across the way. It sounded like Spoiler.

Jim heaves a world weary sigh. He desperately wishes he could go home and spend time with his daughter instead of tracking down professional kidnappers, but when has life ever been kind to him? Now is not the time to take a moment and breathe, so he stands from his desk and leaves his office to share the information Batman was so kind to give him.

Some of the detectives will be skeptical of the information’s credibility, but Batman hasn’t been wrong yet. His motley crew is as reliable as they come. 

They’ll have to go about combing the East End carefully, though. Just because the bats can slip past the kidnappers’ defenses doesn’t mean the GCPD can.

Jim just hopes the Drakes reply and send in the ransom.

It would certainly save everyone a lot of trouble. 

  * **⤘⤘⤘ -**



Tim wants to go home. Whether he means Wayne manor, Drake manor, or Mount Justice, he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care. He’s just _sick_ of being tortured.

The first video had been a single punch. Besides losing a tooth, it wasn’t all that bad.

The second was five. That one was still manageable.

The third, they jumped straight to waterboarding him. _That_ sucked, but at least he found out what the bucket and towel were for.

Tim has seen people get waterboarded in movies and t.v shows, but he never expected it to _hurt._ It was like he was drowning, and his lungs were filled with a persistent ache that still hasn’t completely gone away. To make things worse, Tim broke his wrist in his struggling. 

Then again, it could be much worse. He’s seen the reports from other kidnappings, and he knows that he’d rather be waterboarded and shot than the alternative.

There’s the sound of the basement door opening, and Tim lets out a scared whine. He thought he had another hour. He thought he had more time to collect himself, to be brave in front of the camera. That’s the worst part - Tim’s torture is being recorded and displayed like some messed up reality show, and he’s the star. It’s _humiliating._

The door opens and Tim is manhandled back into that horrible chair. They only tie his wrists when he’s in it, but he learned quickly not to try and fight them. At least when he tried to make a break for it before the second video, the warning shot went into the wall and not his back. 

Between the guns, dehydration, hunger, being outnumbered, and the locked basement door, Tim is trapped. He stopped trying to find a way out after the waterboarding. 

Cow-mask and Zebra-mask tie his wrists to the chair arms, like usual, but this time Tim is fighting back tears at how the ropes dig into his broken bone. They nod, satisfied, and pick up their guns to resume their positions on either side of the chair. 

When the camera turns on, Deer-mask is standing behind the chair, resting his arms on the back. Tim tries not to think about how he was standing there during the last torture session.

“Hello again, Commissioner,” Deer-mask sings. “It feels like it’s only been a couple of minutes since we last saw each other. Time flies when you’re waiting for money, I suppose.”

Tim clenches his jaw to keep from flinching as gloved hands rest on his shoulders. Fingertips brush the sides of his neck, and he freezes.

No. _Please_ no.

“There’s a phone in the building next to the GCPD headquarters that’s wired to send messages to ours. I know what you’re thinking, and no, you can’t trace it. I’m just curious as to where mommy Drake and daddy Drake’s money is.”

It’s coming. It has to be, Gordon will tell them that.

Deer-mask chuckles darkly. “I’m going to need that reply quick, okay? You don’t have three hours to find one phone in the entire building, because for every minute that passes…”

The fingers on Tim’s neck wrap around his throat, and he almost chokes on a barely-restrained sob. This is going to be so much worse than the waterboarding. He’s been strangled before, and it has to be one of his least favorite sensations. Sometimes Tim thinks he’d rather be shot. 

“I’m going to tighten my grip on the kid’s neck. Hop to it, Commissioner - I’ll even let your precious Bat help.”

It hits Tim that the video isn’t a recording. It’s a _livestream._ People are watching him get tortured in real time, _Bruce_ might be watching it in real time. This makes it all so much worse.

God, Tim is _worthless._

The first minute flashes by, and all too soon there’s a cheery _ping_ from the phone in Horse-mask’s hand. 

The hands around Tim’s throat squeeze just enough to make breathing uncomfortable. He tries to deepen his breathing to get as much air as he can before the supply cuts off. Forcing his muscles to relax is more difficult than it should be, but it’ll help conserve oxygen.

Another ping from the phone, and the hands tighten more.

Now, the only breaths Tim can take are short, choked gasps. It’s all he can do not to give into panic when all he wants to do is thrash against the rough fabric encircling his throat like a deadly collar.

Yet another ping, and the hands squeeze until his airway is crushed. Bruce and the others are searching, they have to be, so why is it taking so long?

Tim can’t breathe. He can’t _breathe._

He realizes that if the phone isn’t found, Deer-mask is going to keep squeezing until Tim dies, live on camera. He doesn’t want to die, not like this. Saving the city, sure. Saving his friends, absolutely. But this? Strangled in some dusty basement by faceless, nameless people?

It’s horrific. 

Seconds drag on like hours. Tim gasps in uselessly like a dying fish as his strength ebbs. All he can do is stare up at the emotionless animal mask floating over him through half lidded eyes. Darkness fuzzes at the edges of Tim’s vision, and he doesn’t care as a tear trails from the corner of his eye.

The phone chimes. It doesn’t ping, it _chimes._

The hands around Tim’s throat disappear, and he sucks in a desperate lungful of air. The oxygen doesn’t have time to be absorbed as he coughs violently, the air scratching against his bruised windpipe. It still feels like he can’t breathe. 

“Well, this is a development,” Deer-mask says with thinly veiled irritation as he stares down at the phone. “The Drakes aren’t replying, hm? No ransom to be paid? That certainly puts a damper on our plans.”

The money isn’t coming?

The...the money isn’t coming. _It isn’t coming._

Tim misses what Deer-mask says next. It feels like he’s just had his brain scrambled and put back together with perfect clarity, though there’s a ringing in his ears.

Jack and Janet aren’t paying the ransom. Hell, why would they? Why on earth would they try to save their miserable failure of a son? The worst part is that Tim isn’t even mad about it. No, he understands perfectly. 

Really, he should’ve seen this coming. Actually, he thinks he did, but he just didn’t want to face the truth.

Tim Drake isn’t worth saving.

He never has been. 

Bruce and the others won’t be all that sad - they’ll probably be glad to have Tim out of their hair, though Steph might be upset. Maybe Duke and Cass, though Tim doesn’t want to assume. It’ll be the same with his friends, they’ll just move on like he never existed, won’t they? Cassie, Bart, Kon -

_Kon._

Tim can’t even try to convince himself that his best friend would be indifferent to him dying. Of all the people in the world, he _knows_ Kon would care. Even though they’ve only known each other for a year, their bond, it’s…special. Unbreakable. Tim would give anything to see him again.

It slams into Tim like a freight train that he could have called for Kon this entire time, and he would have come in moments. Tim would’ve been saved hours ago, safe and sound with the people he loves - even if most of them don’t love him back. 

Tim trie now, he really does, but all that comes out of his mouth is a broken wheeze. 

Tears spill down his cheeks, and he can’t give a damn that the camera is still on. Let him grieve his lost chances and soon to be loss of life. He’s already a disappointment. 

“Aw, Timmy,” Deer-mask murmurs. A gloved thumb brushes away a tear, and Tim doesn’t have it in himself to flinch. “Don’t cry, I’m sure there’s a _perfectly reasonable_ explanation as to why your parents didn’t pay up.”

Tim closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to look at animal masks anymore, or bright lights and cameras. 

Deer-mask sighs, and his presence steps away. “Look at what you’ve all done, you made the kid cry. Shame on you.” He sighs, and it almost sounds sincere. “Well, it looks like this is our last message.”

The hitches in Tim's breath become audible. When the camera turns off, he’ll be killed. 

“I’m sorry it had to come to this, Commissioner, so please, send my condolences to the Drakes. It’s been a lovely time. Ta-tah!”

A couple of seconds of quiet pass before one of the kidnappers lets out a violent swear and kicks something. Whatever it was clatters to the floor with a bang, and Tim stops crying as a reflex.

What normal person stops crying as a _reflex?_ Yet another thing that chalks him up as a failure.

“God fucking dammit!” One of them yells. Tim doesn’t care enough to try and discern who’s speaking. “What fucking parent doesn’t even _try_ to get their fucking kid back? Fucking unbelievable!”

“I knew this was going to be a bust,” another says. “At least we have the trinkets, those’ll pay a nice buck or two. So...we gonna kill the kid and skip, or what?”

“Yeah, let's pack up,” the familiar husk of Deer-mask’s voice says. “Jill, go check and make sure we’re in the clear to leave.”

“Got it.”

Tim would start crying again if he wasn’t so numb. Kidnappers never reveal their names unless they’re idiots or don’t intend on letting the victim leave alive. These guys are the latter, but Tim already knew that. 

“How’re we gonna do this?” The nasal-voiced man says. “I say we shoot ‘em in the head - it’s quick ,clean, and efficient.”

Someone ruffles Tim’s hair. “Aw, can’t we let him live? He’s so adorable, and he was _such_ a good little hostage. It’d be a shame to kill him after he was so strong for the camera.”

Someone tuts.

“He didn’t even see our faces! The only name he heard was Jill’s, and her name is so common that it’d be impossible to track.”

A sigh. Deer-mask says, “I suppose it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

There’s the sound of the basement door being thrown open, followed by stomping boots. ‘Jill’ yells, “Darryl, the bats, they’re nearby - we gotta scram!”

The room goes quiet for a moment before the kidnappers explode into motion. The basement fills with the commotion of them moving things and rushing around. A faint flicker of hope sparks to life in Tim’s chest - maybe they’ll leave him here. Alive.

Deer-mask snaps his fingers and says, “I changed my mind. We’re dumping him in the bay.”

The flicker dies out.

  * **⤘⤘⤘ -**



Thirteen hours and ten minutes. That’s how long Drake has been missing.

Damian scowls as he scowls the buildings around him. The horizon is starting to lighten with the rising sun, bathing the concrete jungle in dim tones. Birds are starting to wake up with the city. Their dark shapes flit at the edges of Damian’s vision.

He and his family have narrowed the basement’s location down to three separate blocks on the bay side of the East End, and it’s only a matter of time before they find the right building. The locals are widely spread out, but it should only take a couple of minutes for everyone to converge if needed.

It’s only a matter of time before they rescue Drake, alive or - no, Damian doesn’t consider the alternative an option. He won’t allow anyone to die when there’s something he can do about it. 

Even though thirteen hours is an awfully long time, and even if those ten minutes are how much time has passed since the last livestream, someone is going to find Drake.

And he’s going to be alive.

A car rumbles to life on the next street over, and Damian swings to the building overlooking it just in case.

It’s a dark blue minivan with tinted back windows. Nothing too peculiar for six in the morning, but Damian doubts it belongs to a family leaving for a road trip.

So, _just in case,_ he tails it. Something akin to guilt settles in his stomach - he could be searching the block he was assigned, but here he is, following a van on a hunch. Then again, Damian’s instincts often turn out to be correct. Almost always, actually, and something is telling him to follow this car.

The hunch is proved correct when he sees someone glance out of the shotgun window, and the van speeds up.

_Gotcha._

Damian’s vicious grin is purely one of victory as he swings faster to match the van’s pace. The current plan is to land on the car, take out the driver, and safely bring it to a stop.

The van swerves into an alley, cancelling that plan. Damian swears under his breath as he overshoots. It takes far too long to correct his trajectory, and by the time he follows the car’s path, the streets are empty. He lands on a rooftop and punches an air conditioning unit, swearing again.

Think, Damian, _think._

The kidnappers wouldn’t leave their victim in the place they were held, they’d take them with them. Why? To dispose of them, alive or dead. In a rush, they’d want a quick and effective way of ridding themselves of the victim, who doubles as evidence. The best way to make sure the ‘evidence’ is never found, in this location, would be -

_Dumping them in the bay._

  
  


Damian throws himself back into the chase, this time making a beeline for the docks. If Drake is still alive, he won’t be for long. If he doesn’t drown (he will quickly, his ability to breathe is already compromised), then the freezing cold of Gotham’s waters will claim him quickly. 

The docks come into view over the next couple of blocks, and Damian can just barely make out the shape of the van parked by the water. A couple of shapes shuffle along the block, carrying something wiggling, and he watches with mounting horror as they throw it into the river.

_Drake._

Damian presses a hand to his ear, rattles off the address of the docks, the van description, where it was headed, and all but roars, “All hands converge on my location, _NOW!”_

He takes off swinging as fast as he possibly can, even if it means almost misfiring his grapple a few times. Voices cry out in his ear, yelling questions, but he can’t spare the breath to answer. He has to get there before Drake drowns. Before he dies when Damian is _right there._

The van is driving away when Damian finally reaches the docks. There’s the choice - take the kidnappers down once and for all, possibly saving the lives of many others, or save Drake.

It isn’t even a question.

Damian barely has time to put on his rebreather and shed his cape and belt before he’s diving into the frigid waters of Gotham’s bay.

It’s mind-numbingly cold and dark, and the current is already tugging him down the coast. Damian doesn’t fight it, instead swimming with it. Drake is likely unable to swim, so he would be dragged along at the ocean’s mercy. 

There’s so much silt clouding the water that Damian worries that he might miss Drake completely. A fish darts out of the gloom and slaps him in the face, and he dives deeper to avoid the glimmer of a shoal ahead.

As luck would have it, Damian dives into a current that’s mostly clear of silt. For an inane second, he wonders if the fish were purposely guiding him down, then realizes that that’s fucking stupid. The train of thought de-rails as he realizes he can see a limp shape floating ahead.

Damian almost forgets he can breathe. It’s Drake, it has to be, and he’s not moving.

The burn in Damian’s muscles and the chill clinging to his bones is easily ignored as he forces himself to swim faster. Drake’s hands are bound behind his back, and Damian has his knife in hand by the time he reaches him. The knife slices through the ropes like butter, and Damian drops it in favor of ripping off his rebreather to fix it to Drake’s face. He wraps an arm around Drake’s chest and swims up.

Their ascension is slower than Damian would like, as he only has one arm to swim with and Drake is dead weight in his arms. It might be a more accurate term than Damian would like - his chest is still against Damian’s arm. The rebreather isn’t doing anything if the person wearing it isn’t breathing. 

Damian doesn’t allow himself time to breathe when they break the surface - it doesn’t matter that his lungs were screaming for air. He flips onto his back and pulls Drake onto his chest as best as he can, then swims blindly for the shore. 

Has Drake always been so small and light? It’s painfully obvious now.

They’re only halfway there, and Damian is already struggling to move. The Nightwing uniform’s insulation is doing nothing, and his limbs are completely numb. If he’s lucky, he’s just cold. If he’s unlucky, he has hypothermia. Well, he’s always been a realist when it comes to himself, so he’s betting the latter. He doesn’t think about what a prolonged amount of time in this water is doing for Drake.

Damian swims until his back hits solid ground - never has he been more grateful for dry land as he is now. He scrambles up the shore, half dragging Drake and half carrying him until they’re out of reach of the lapping water. Damian lays him down on the pebbled shore and removes the rebreather.

He immediately starts rescue breaths. After a couple, he switches to chest compressions, pushing down lighter than he would normally - Drake is just so damn small. Damian doesn’t want to hurt him. Not anymore. 

“Come on, Drake,” he hisses after another set of breaths. “You’re not allowed to die, I _forbid_ it.”

Not before Damian fixes things. Not before he repents for what he’s done to a literal _child,_ what the fuck is _wrong_ with him -

There’s the sound of his siblings approaching (he’d recognize their footsteps anywhere) on the street above, then the crunch of pebbles as they jump down to the shore. 

“Oh my god,” Brown cries, “Tim? Tim!”

“Hold on,” Duke says. Out of the corner of his eye, Damian can see him holding her back. “It’ll be okay, give them room.”

Damian ignores them. More rescue breaths. More chest compressions. Cassandra kneels next to him and puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

It’s been over a minute. Drake hasn’t been breathing for longer.

“Dammit, Timothy!” Damian snarls. “You’re going to live if I have to fight death myself!”

And Drake _breathes._

Damian leans back just in time to avoid a faceful of seawater as Drake coughs up half of the Atlantic. Cassandra helps turn him on his side to help him empty his lungs. He’s trembling violently under their hands.

Duke is already calling the GCPD, an ambulance, and Batman to their location. He’s smiling as he tells them that Drake is alive.

Brown collapses to her knees next to Drake and pulls him into her arms, laughing wetly. He sags into her embrace with closed eyes, though it looks like he’s smiling faintly. Cassandra wraps Damian in their own brief hug.

Yes, Drake is alive, but they can’t afford to celebrate yet. Not when there’s still a chance he could die. He’s stopped shivering, for one, and his lips are blue. There’s a ring of dark bruises encircling his throat, and his wrist is beyond swollen. There are definitely more injuries they can’t see.

“We need to warm him up,” Damian says, leaping back into work mode. “Signal, my cape is on the nearest dock -”

Duke nods and speeds off without him needing to say anything more.

“Spoiler, let go - we need to get his clothes off.”

Brown stops sniffling and holds Drake tighter, giving Damian a dirty look. “We _what?”_

Damian scowls. “He has hypothermia, and the freezing water is making it worse. We can use our capes to warm him up.”

“Save him,” Cassandra says, squeezing Brown’s shoulder. After a moment’s hesitation, Brown nods and relinquishes her grip. Damian shoves down a small spike of panic as he realizes Drake has fallen unconscious - they need to work fast. 

They work together to strip him of his soaked clothes, though they let him keep his boxers on for some modicum of decency. Duke returns by the time they’re done with the Nightwing cape in his arms. He wordlessly wraps Drake in it, then Cassandra and Brown remove their own capes to add extra layers. 

Damian designed the Nightwing cape to specifically repel wind and hold in heat - just because he can handle the cold doesn’t mean he wants to. As a bonus, it’s perfect for helping warm hypothermia victims. 

“It’s gonna be okay, Tim,” Brown whispers, holding him close once again. Cassandra and Duke curl around them, effectively bubbling Drake in a pocket of warmth. 

Cassandra tugs on Damian’s arm and says, “You too.”

Damian hesitates. He isn’t sure he’s allowed to...to... _cuddle._ That’s something reserved for people Drake actually wants around, isn’t it? Damian is fairly certain he doesn’t land in that category - from the way Brown is glaring at him, he isn’t.

“N, just get over here,” Duke sighs. “You run warmer than all of us combined.”

Damian can’t argue with that logic, though he doubts he’ll be radiating any warmth through his freezing suit. He shuffles close enough that he can drape his arms over Duke and Cassandra’s shoulders, closing the pocket. Now Drake is partly in everyone’s laps. His head is in Brown’s, his back is sharing Cassandra and Duke’s, and his legs are in Damian’s. 

The pocket is already warming up, and the blue tinge to Drake’s lips is fading. He’s even shivering again.

The GCPD and the ambulance arrive before Father does, though Damian isn’t surprised. He’s likely chasing down the van and beating the kidnappers within an inch of their lives, as he should be. 

Gordon visibly double-takes at the sight of four vigilantes huddled together like a human dome. Cassandra waves her arm and points down at Drake, and Gordon leaps into motion. He yells over his shoulder at the alternating lights behind him. Damian realizes with distaste that there are some journalists on the street, pointing their cameras at him and his siblings.

A couple of seconds later and a swarm of EMTs and cops are swarming down to the shore, Gordon leading the charge. A few of them are carrying a stretcher.

“You’ve got the kid?” Gordon says as soon as he’s in earshot. 

Duke leans back to show the burrito that is Drake nestled between them all.

Gordon lets out a whoosh of air and braces his hands on his knees. “Thank _god.”_

Thank Damian, actually, and they’re all very welcome. 

He and his siblings (plus Brown) wait until the EMTs are right in front of them to relinquish Drake from their care. It’s hard not to follow the stretcher as Drake is wheeled away, still wrapped in their capes, but right now they’re just vigilantes. They don’t know Timothy Drake personally - they were just doing their jobs. 

It doesn’t stop Damian to take a half-step forward, like he wants to follow. Which he _does,_ so badly. He’s far too tired to bury the emotion and keep up the pretense of indifference. At this point he can’t deny that Drake is a bat, and he’s part of Damian’s family whether he admits it or not. It kills him to be separated from one of his siblings when they’re hurt. 

Cassandra leans into his side for a brief moment, but it grounds Damian like she knew it would. He gives her a grateful look, and she nods before going to comfort Brown.

The next couple of minutes pass in a blur. EMTs question them on Drake’s current state, and one of them runs to the ambulance when Damian informs them that Drake had drowned, and had to be revived. Gordon asks about the kidnappers, and they tell him all they know. 

Just like that, the horrible night comes to a close. The GCPD is leaving the shoreline in small groups. The ambulance has already left.

Duke pulls Damian into a tight hug, and Damian lets it go on for longer than he normally would in front of civilians. Surprisingly, Duke is the one to end it as he pulls back with a swear.

“Fuck, Nightwing, you’re _freezing!_ Why didn’t you say something?”

Right as he says it, the adrenaline starts draining away, and the effects of taking a dip in the Atlantic at six in the morning are setting in.

“I hadn’t noticed,” Damian says as evenly as he can. It’s difficult to keep the shiver out of his voice. “I’ll be f-fine.”

To prove it, he makes to walk away, but he only gets one step before his leg gives out on him. Duke lunges to catch him, and he grumbles as he accepts the help. Cassandra and Brown come over, worry lining their postures - well, lining Cassandra’s. Brown looks mildly amused.

“Okay, where’s B?” Duke says. “We could really use the mobile’s heater right now.”

“I’m _fine,”_ Damian reiterates. 

“Liar,” Cassandra says. She pokes his forehead. “Bad lie.”

“She’s right, you’re the opposite of fine.” Duke hisses in sympathy as a particularly forceful shiver shakes Damian, and tries to rub his chest. Damian bats his hand away, not giving a damn if it ‘helps circulation’ and ‘warms him up’, or if it ‘feels nice’, which it does _not._ There are still a couple of officers and journalists around. Nightwing has a reputation, damn it.

Unfortunately, Cassandra catches on, and she starts rubbing his arm with one hand and his side with the other. Damian’s withering glare dies under the force of her own. He might be the eldest, but he knows not to fight his sister. To make things worse, Brown’s eyes narrow mischievously and she slides behind them. A second later arms wind around Damian’s waist as she attaches herself to his back.

“Brown,” Damian hisses under his breath, shooting an embarrassed - _irritated,_ not embarrassed, _irritated_ \- glance at the officers and journalists still on street level. “All of you, cease this at _once_.”

“Nope,” Duke chirps, “this is way too much fun. Also, we’re saving your life. No refusal of life-saving allowed.”

“You are not - stop rubbing my stomach, Brown, or you will lose your hands - you are not saving me! If anything, you’re doing the opposite.”

“Death by embarrassment,” Cassandra says brightly. 

Their holds on him are too strong to escape, so Damian heaves an angry huff and resigns himself to his fate. He absolutely hates that their tactic is working - feeling is already returning to his limbs. 

Judging by a camera flash from the journalists, there’s going to be a truly horrific picture on the headlines tomorrow of Gotham’s prized vigilantes giving Nightwing a rubdown. He doesn’t even have a hood to hide his wet hair flopping pathetically over his forehead. He has never missed his cape as much as he does in this moment.

For a brief, insane second, he considers calling Jon to save him from this mess. Then he realizes that his best friend would be all too happy to help Damian’s siblings, and banishes the idea. 

At least, he thinks as Brown squeezes his middle and cracks a joke, Drake is going to live. 

  * **⤘⤘⤘ -**



Ever since he was a little boy, hospitals have always set Bruce on edge. He isn’t sure if it’s the sterile white surroundings, the unnatural, too-clean smell, or the pervading sense of death, but it always makes him uncomfortable. It’s partly why the cave has a fully-functioning medical wing.

It also hurts to see one of his kids on the large hospital beds, laying still in a thin gown under stiff sheets. It looks uncomfortable - and it is, Bruce knows from experience. Tim deserves to be resting in the soothing lighting of the cave, surrounded by people who love him as he recovers. For large portions of the day, he’ll be alone here. 

At least at night, Bruce and his children can sneak in. They’ve already asked Alfred to whip up some homemade meals and treats for them to bring Tim when he wakes up.

And that’s the miracle Bruce is focusing on.

_When_ Tim wakes up.

The lad is stable, and has been since the ambulance brought him in early this morning. When Bruce came in to check on him - as Tim’s emergency contact - the doctors informed him that Tim will have no lasting complications. He’s in no danger of developing pneumonia, nor does he have brain hypoxia, which is something Bruce has worried about ever since Duke told him what happened at the docks. There’s only one broken bone, which is another miracle. Tim could have easily had multiple, for all of the times the masked _bastard_ punched him.

For all that happened, Tim is going to recover just fine.

It doesn’t make looking at the dark ring of bruises around his neck any easier. Or the cast around his left wrist. They’re both reminders that Bruce didn’t save him in time, that if Damian hadn’t been in the exact right place at the exact right time, Tim would be at the bottom of Gotham’s bay. 

Every time he closes his eyes, Bruce sees the god-awful live-streams that have been burned into his retinas. He’s seen countless people tortured, including his own children (as horrific as that is), but it never gets any easier. The pained grunts Tim made with each punch, the struggling as the kidnapper poured water over his toweled face, the sickening crunch of his wrist breaking followed by his scream.

Bruce sighs for the fifth time in an hour and leans back in the plastic hospital chair, his gaze fixed on the small boy in the bed. He’s alive. Injured, but alive. If Bruce could, he’d have taken Tim home already. Unfortunately, despite being his emergency contact, Bruce isn’t Tim’s legal guardian.

(He wishes he could be. All he wants to do is keep Tim safe and sound, far away from Jack and Janet. If he had it his way, Bruce would never let them near Tim again.)

So he’s forced to be content with visiting the hospital as often as possible. Bruce’s kids made a chart after Tim was confirmed to be stable, mapping out who can visit when so that he’s alone as little as possible. 

They would be in the room with Bruce right now, but they decided to make a shopping run down at the pastry store across the street. Duke texted to tell him that they’re going to be smuggling an entire pie into the hospital, just in case Tim wakes up. Which he should soon - the doctors estimated that he won’t sleep for much longer. 

As if sensing his thoughts, Tim stirs on the bed. Bruce closes the book he’s been holding (it’s not like he was reading it anyway) and puts it on the bedside table.

“Tim?” He says as gently as he can. “Are you awake, lad?”

Tim mutters something and frowns as his eyelids flutter. After a full minute of struggling to consciousness - the painkillers probably aren’t helping - he opens his eyes, revealing glazed icy blue. 

“Wh…” Tim tries to say, and Bruce winces in sympathy. Just from that half word he can already tell that his voice is a mess. “Wh’re…”

“You’re in the hospital,” Bruce says, scooting closer to the bed.

Tim’s eyes widen the slightest bit. They flick around the empty room somewhat frantically, catching on each piece of furniture until they finally land on Bruce.

“H-how...I-I don’ -”

Bruce lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently. “It’s alright. I know it’s confusing, but you’re safe.”

Tim mouths the word ‘safe’, and not a second later tears fill his eyes and his breath hitches. 

“Yes, safe,” Bruce repeats. “They don’t have you anymore, and never will again.”

Bruce doesn’t tell him that he was unable to find the kidnappers. By the time he followed Damian’s instructions in the mobile, they were long gone. That won’t stop him from searching endlessly, though. If not for Tim, then for potential future victims.

Tim nods, silent tears dripping down his temples. Bruce wastes no time in moving to sit on the bed before pulling him into his arms, mindful of the cast. Just like that, the floodgates open. Tim clings to him and cries openly into Bruce’s shirt, sobs wracking his small frame. 

“You’re okay,” Bruce murmurs, holding Tim as close as he can without aggravating his injuries. “You’re okay, Tim.”

They stay like that until Tim’s sobs devolve into sniffles and he pulls away. Bruce helps him lay back on the thin hospital pillows, then gets up to grab a bottle of water from the table and hands it to him. Tim downs half the bottle in seconds.

“Thanks,” he rasps, handing it back.

Bruce smiles as he puts it down. “The others should be back shortly. They’ll be glad to see you up.”

Tim frowns and tilts his head. “Others?”

Right on cue, the boisterous noises of Bruce’s kids (plus Steph) filter through the door. It clicks open and they pour in, shushing each other and snorting as they try to contain their laughter, their arms laden with shopping bags.

Steph sees Tim first, and she gasps in a delighted, “Tim!”

“Tim?” Duke echoes, peeking around her. He lights up with a blinding smile - quite literally. Bruce is fairly certain his powers are shining through. “Tim, dude! You’re up!”

They nearly fall over one another in their rush to get to him (Cass gets their first, unsurprisingly), already talking a mile-a-minute about how worried they’ve been. Tim watches with a stunned expression, seemingly at a loss at what to do. Bruce steps back with his own smile, letting the three of them fuss over their injured friend. 

A flicker of movement in the doorway catches his attention - it’s Damian, looking entirely out of place. He’s holding a thin box as he shifts his weight, watching the commotion with his ‘I don’t know what to do’ face. 

Bruce exhales through his nose and walks over to him. Interactions with his son are...tense, to say the least. Most of them end with slammed doors and missed calls. Hopefully they can carry a civil conversation this evening. 

“Damian,” Bruce greets neutrally. He hasn’t seen his son since the search for Tim began, and he didn’t know that he had joined up with his siblings during their shopping excursion. 

“Father,” Damian replies coolly. It’s lacking a bite that usually comes with his words. “I see Drake is recovering well.”

“With no small thanks to you.”

Damian averts his gaze from the hospital bed and clicks his tongue in the familiar ‘ _tt’_. It’s not his dismissal scoff, but his unsure one. The one he makes when he’s not sure how to reply the right way.

“I was just doing what was right,” he mutters.

Bruce doesn’t try to press. He knows that Damian is trying to make things right with Tim, in his backwards, hesitant ways. Instead he hums and turns to watch Steph scribble something on Tim’s cast. He’s smiling as she does so, and Duke says something that makes the four of them laugh.

“This is for Drake,” Damian continues, shoving the box he’s holding into Bruce’s hands. It looks like a clothing box, the lid held on with little pieces of tape. Despite the rushed sealing job, the white surface is unblemished and in perfect condition. 

“What is it?” 

Damian bristles a little, and Bruce is quick to add to his question.

“I’m simply curious. Whatever it is, I’m sure he’ll like it.”

“It’s a hoodie,” Damian says. He shoves his hands in his pockets and pointedly glares at the wall as he talks. “Brown had mentioned that the one Drake had been wearing during his kidnapping was his favorite, and since it was effectively ruined, well...I thought that he might…”

Pride warms Bruce’s chest, and he barely restrains himself from pulling his eldest into a hug. “I’m sure he’ll love it, son.”

Damian meets his gaze sharply and narrows his eyes, searching for something. Bruce isn’t sure if he finds it, but he blinks slowly before leaving the room. The door clicks shut behind him, and Bruce thinks it sounds a little like hope.

“B, tell Tim he’s being an idiot,” Steph calls from the bed. She’s sitting cross-legged next to Tim, and they have bags of snacks strewn across both of their laps. Cass is already snacking on dried assorted fruit, and Duke has a box of dots in hand. 

“‘M not an idiot,” Tim says in his hoarse voice. 

“You literally just said that white chocolate sucks. It’s literally the best.”

Bruce grimaces as he walks over. “White chocolate, objectively, is the worst kind of chocolate.”

Tim points at him with raised eyebrows. He pokes Steph triumphantly, and she scoffs.

“You’re both losers. Duke, Cass, guys, white chocolate is great, right?”

Duke freezes with a dot halfway to his mouth and says eloquently, “Uhhh…”

“No,” Cass says gently. She pats Steph’s leg in sympathy. “It is horrible.”

“How am I friends with any of you?” Steph says, clearly betrayed. 

“It’s because we’re great,” Tim croaks.

“Stop talking,” Duke chastises. “You’re gonna make your throat worse.”

Tim scowls at him. “I don’ know enough sign.”

“We will teach you,” Cass says. “Work on it later.”

“That’ll be fun - hey, B, what’s that?” Steph says, pointing at the clothing box with a white chocolate bar. 

Duke raises his eyebrows. “Isn’t that the box Damian had?”

“It’s for Tim,” Bruce says. All four of them sit a little straighter at that. Tim takes it with wonder and confusion in his eyes. 

“What is it?” Cass asks. 

Bruce shrugs. “Open it.”

Tim casts him a suspicious glance, so Bruce smiles encouragingly. 

“C’mon, just open it,” Steph says, nudging her friend.

Tim rolls his eyes and starts scraping at the tape. After a second of struggling, both Cass and Steph jump in to help. Within seconds they have all of the tape peeled off, and Tim lifts the lid.

Inside is a jet black hoodie, crisp and untouched by lint or hands. Right on the chest, front and center, is a glossy emblem of a bat. Not just any bat, _the_ bat. It’s subtle, but the meaning of it is powerful.

It’s acceptance.

For a moment, Bruce thinks Tim is about to close the box, but then his lips stretch into a breathtaking grin. He carefully removes it from the box and sets it in his lap, running his hands over the soft looking fabric. Duke and Cass are grinning, and Steph looks like her brain is about to explode.

The back of Bruce’s neck tingles, and he turns just in time to see Damian through the door’s window, walking away. 

Tim doesn’t catch it, but Cass and Duke do. They share knowing smiles with Bruce before returning their attention to the hoodie, and how Tim is fawning over it.

Bruce thinks his previous choice of wording is right.

Yes, hope definitely fits.

  * **⤘⤘⤘ -**



It takes three long, boring days for the hospital to discharge Tim. They kept him there just to make sure that there wouldn’t be any surprise complications. There weren’t, thankfully. His wrist is on track to heal perfectly, and the trouble Tim is having with talking isn’t permanent. The injuries to his throat will heal eventually, probably before his wrist.

Bruce visited the most, surprisingly. He shot down every one of Tim’s ‘don’t you have things to do?’ and ‘you don’t need to visit, I’m fine’ with grace. After the first two days Duke told Tim to shut up and take their company (said with affection), and that was that. 

They also don’t accept the idea of Tim going back to Drake manor once he’s discharged. He barely got the sentence out before there was a clamor of protests. Even Steph was against him going back to his home. The whole conversation, of him protesting and each comment getting shut down, left him feeling warm and unreasonably happy. 

So, now, getting into one of Bruce’s more inconspicuous cars, Tim doesn’t feel out of place. Just relief that he’s going to a manor filled with life and friends. 

It’ll definitely soothe his mind since he’s still paranoid that the kidnappers will come back and finish what they started. The police had questioned him about his experience, and Tim managed to recount half of it before having a panic attack as Bruce and Cass forced the cops to leave. What he could tell them was one of the kidnappers’ names, which will do nothing. That, on top of the fact that even Batman can’t find them, isn’t doing any good for Tim’s psyche. 

In short, it’ll be nice to be around people. 

Tim sighs as he settles into the plush backseat of the car. He already feels like he can breathe easier now that he’s out of the hospital.

“Ready to go home, lad?” Bruce asks as he starts the car.

Tim tries not to let the connotation of Bruce’s words register in his mind. “Born ready.”

There’s a flash of a smile in the rearview mirror, and they’re off. The rumble of the car is like medicine to Tim’s nerves as he leans against the door, watching Gotham go by. It’s been a _long_ few days. He’s more than ready to crash in the t.v room, marathon some movies, and pass out. 

Bruce doesn’t talk during the drive, which Tim is thankful for. He doesn’t want to use his voice more than he needs to. Though, downside, it gives him time to _think._

Mainly about how his parents still haven’t called, texted, or given any indication that they know what happened to Tim. At this point, Tim knows for a fact that they saw, and are simply ignoring it. It would add up. They don’t want him, and that’s fine.

There are people who do. At least, Tim hopes so. The past couple of days have really solidified the idea that the Waynes and Steph legitimately care for him and want him around. It’s a nice feeling, truly. Tim is already feeling more secure as a part of their family - they keep telling him he’s a part of it, so he must be, right? Especially since Damian gave him the new hoodie with a bat symbol on it (and saved his life, apparently, which Tim doesn’t have the emotional capacity to unpack yet). Of course, Tim is wearing it now. It’s already his favorite.

Tim must have been so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the scenery change from inner Gotham to Bristol. In no time at all they’re pulling into the Wayne manor garage. Duke and Cass are waiting by the manor door and wave as they park.

“Hey, man,” Duke says, opening Tim’s door for him. 

Cass helps him out, and Tim protests lightly, “I have a broken wrist, not a broken leg.”

“We know,” they both chorus. 

“Welcome home, Tim,” Bruce says, ruffling Tim’s hair as he passes by.

This time Tim can’t try to ignore his words, and warmth spreads unchecked in his chest. He knows he’s grinning like an idiot, but he can’t really care right now. 

“Come on, we’ve got a movie all set up,” Duke says, steering him into the manor. Cass loops her arm though Tim’s uninjured one as they walk. “We were thinking about having a Lord of the Rings marathon, if you don’t mind.”

Tim shakes his head, still grinning. It’s fine by him - more than fine, actually. Perfect.

“Cool. Well, me and Cass are gonna go get some popcorn. Meet you in the sun room.”

Just like that, Tim is left standing alone in the middle of the hallway, watching them walk away. There’s music coming from the direction of the sun room, so Tim shoves down the slight hurt in his gut and makes his way over there. Why the sun room, and not the theatre, he doesn’t question. He barely steps through the doorway before he’s met with a barrage of noise.

“Tim!”

“Tim, buddy, you’re back!”

“Timberthan!”

“Uh…” Tim says smartly as he’s rushed by Kon, Cassie, and Bart. All three of them are wearing ridiculously huge smiles as they talk over one another, asking him how he is and expressing how worried they were.

Bart (of course) reaches him first and tugs him into a tight hug. Tim barely gets to enjoy it before Cassie’s peeling them apart for her turn.

“We were so fucking worried about you,” she says, holding him at arms length.

“How are you feeling?” Bart asks.

“I -” Tim tries to say, but Kon cuts him off.

“Don’t talk, you’re still hurt.” He grins and drapes an arm over Tim’s shoulders and gently tugs him over to the nest of pillows and blankets they’ve set up.

It’s a cute display, really. The room is bathed in the soft light that filters in through the giant windows. A sheet has been pinned to the wall, and a projector is displaying the title screen of the first Lord of the Rings movie on it. 

It’s the exact opposite of the basement.

“We’re going to watch every single movie in this series,” Bart rambles, settling into a bean bag, “eat lotsa junk food, play some games, do whatever as we do.”

Tim allows himself to be sat in the middle of the nest, still slightly bewildered. Does Bruce know they’re here? Stupid question, of course he does. Still...what happened to the ‘no metas in Gotham unless your name is Duke’ rule?

Kon flops down next to him, says, “We missed you, man,” and pulls Tim into the warmest, most comfortable hug he’s ever been in.

It only takes a second for Tim to melt against his chest with a near-silent sigh. He really thought he was going to die without seeing his best friend - or any of his friends - again. Kon holds him the slightest bit tighter, not enough to hurt but enough to make Tim feel entirely safe. 

“Sorry we weren’t there, Tim,” Kon says, his voice a gentle rumble against Tim. “From now on I’ll be checking in on you regularly, okay? I’m never letting this happen to you again.”

“Same goes with us,” Bart says as Cassie makes an affirming noise.

Tim sighs again and murmurs, “Thanks, guys.”

He isn’t their responsibility, but he doesn’t have it in him to protest. He’s just thankful that they care, and that he gets to see them again.

“Of course,” Kon says in the same tone. There’s a light pressure on the top of Tim’s head, and it _feels_ like a kiss, though he can’t make sure. Either way, it makes his face warm.

“Okay,” Cassie says teasingly, “enough with the bromance, you two. Let’s watch some wizards.”

Kon lets Tim go, though he doesn’t move far, and he lets Kon keep an arm around him. Cassie sprawls out on their other side, and Bart presses play on the movie. 

From there, the afternoon passes without a hitch. Duke and Cass bring them an abundance of popcorn, most of which Bart devours before the first movie is halfway over. They don’t stay, but Duke, Bruce, and Alfred periodically check in to make sure Tim and his friends are okay.

Tim finds himself drifting off halfway through the second Lord of the Rings movie. Between Bart using his legs as a pillow and Kon absentmindedly running his fingers through his hair, Tim is more than comfortable.

Later, he’ll receive an offhand email from his parents about how disappointed in him they are in him, and how he shouldn’t have put them in such a tough situation. It’ll confirm his fear that they knew but just didn’t respond.

But instead of being alone as he breaks down, Tim will be surrounded by friends and people he considers his family. They’ll help him pick up the pieces, and they’ll go over to Drake manor to bring his belongings to the Waynes’. 

It’ll be a rough couple of months as Tim adjusts to his new life and deals with the aftermath of the kidnapping. They never will find the people in the animal masks, but as time wears on, Tim will mind less and less. 

Bruce and the others will defend him from Jack and Janet when they finally come back to Gotham. After a vicious - but quiet - legal battle, Bruce will have legal custody of Tim whenever the Drakes aren’t in town. It won’t be a pretty transition, but it will be necessary. 

But that’s a problem for later.

For now, Tim dozes in the sun room of Wayne manor. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not rereading this thing, so if you find any spelling/grammar mistakes call me out and tell me where. I literally just want to wash my hands of this fic. 
> 
> If y'all have any questions about this au or just want to beat me up, hmu @ [Batshit-Birds](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/batshit-birds) on Tumblr


End file.
